by Sharon Lee
“Not just that,” Kritoulkas said in her sour way. “This last bunch of ’em were after the captain’s lifeboat. Expect they might have thought he was sent from this battleship of his down to the house. House looks like a command post. Hell, a month ago, it was a command post.”
Jason Carmody nodded and looked over to Shan. “Want to bring me up to speed on that?”
So, for the second time in as many days, Shan told the story of the sabotaged pod, the Yxtrang attack, and his unplanned arrival on the planet surface.
“And I find since that I’ve made a rather serious error, Commander. I honestly did think it was best for everyone to detonate the lifeboat and stop the Yxtrang armor. However, the lifeboat contained a working space-link radio, which Sub-Commander Kritoulkas tells me is something of a local rarity at the moment.”
Jase nodded. “’trang took out the satellite net first off. Standard operating procedure, according to Beautiful. We’re gonna need to know what upstairs looked like, last you saw it. Grab you a computer outta—”
“That’s done,” Val Con’s—Miri—spoke up. “Had him working on it soon as we pulled back here.” She reached in her jacket pocket, removed a disk and passed it over. Jason grinned.
“One step ahead of me, which is what I should have expected, my small!” He looked back to Shan, who lifted his eyebrows.
“An outline of my ship’s capabilities and strengths is also on the disk.”
“Hah! Your idea?”
“It did seem the sort of information you might find helpful,” Shan said and Jason grinned again.
“Gonna retire and let the crowd of you run the war. Call me when it’s over.”
“Might want to reconsider,” Miri said, her shoulder nestled companionably against Val Con’s. “My experience is that retirement’s a good way to get yourself into more trouble than you know the name of.”
Jase nodded. “I’ll hold off a bit, then. Not any too fond of trouble, myself.” He looked around the table, abruptly serious.
“Here’s what, people. We’re as ready up the house as stubbornness and the scout’s ingenuity can make us. Kritoulkas and me’re gonna walk the area when we’re done here, to see if we’re missing anything the ’trang might want. But we’re at a bad disadvantage when it comes to air support and cover. As in, ’trang got it, and we don’t.” He looked at Shan.
“Think that ship of yours can provide any cover?”
“We carry one space-to-world gun,” Shan said slowly. “Which is good for offense, but not particularly outstanding for defense. Besides that, we have no radio . . .”
“Don’t give up so easy,” Jase advised him. “Very possible that we’ll capture us a ’trang radio for the scout to coax into honesty. You’re right, though, son. Space-to-world weapon’s nice to have on the side of the angels, but it’s no substitute for good local air cover, which is what we don’t have, Erob’s force having gone West when ’trang bombed the fields, coming in.”
Val Con stirred. “Air cover. But would a bombing run—several bombing runs—against Yxtrang strategic targets be of just as much utility?”
Jason shrugged. “Sure. While we’re wishing for pie-in-the-sky we might as well wish for ice cream, too.”
Val Con shook his head and leaned forward across the table. “There is nothing fantastic in such a bombing run, Jason. We have here—” he pointed to Shan, to Nelirikk, and touched himself lightly on the chest—“three pilots of Master quality. We have there—” a point off to the southwest—“many dozens of aircraft.”
Jason stared. “Yxtrang aircraft.”
“True enough. However, Nelirikk is in a unique position to coach my brother and me in the fine points of an Yxtrang board. I promise you, we are both able learners. And with three planes in the air, we might do real damage. With the luck beside us, we might just possibly convince the 14th Conquest Corps that the prudent course is strategic withdrawal.”
“Hmm.” Jason stroked his beard.
“Bad plan,” Miri said flatly. Val Con turned his head, both eyebrows up.
“Miri, if it lifts, we can fly it. Neither Shan nor I has yet found his limit in piloting.” He tipped his head. “Truth, Miri.”
“I don’t doubt it. But unless you’re planning on a real spurt of growth in the next half-hour or so, it ain’t gonna work.”
“I don’t under—”
“Simple.” She cut him off and pushed her chair back, motioning him to stand up with her. “Beautiful, plant yourself there. Boss, you stand right here.” When the two of them were side by side, she stepped back, arms crossed, and hitched a hip onto the edge of the table.
“If Beautiful is standard-issue, and from what we seen, he is, you’re about a foot-and-a-half shy of make-weight.”
Shan had to admit she had a point. One did not usually think of Val Con as small, but set against the Yxtrang, he appeared almost fragile. Viewed thus, it seemed even more fantastic that Val Con had fought hand-to-hand against this giant—and prevailed, as both Miri and Nelirikk insisted was true.
Miri shifted abruptly, leaning forward as if she had seen the steel overlay Val Con’s pattern—which, Shan thought suddenly, she might well have.
“Ain’t no use getting stubborn,” she snapped. “Won’t change the fact that you’re too little! Cockpit made to hold Beautiful is gonna have stuff set outta your reach.”
“If the captain pleases,” the Yxtrang said quietly. “There is some variation in height among the Troop. Cockpits of fighter craft are somewhat adjustable. A pilot the size of the scout’s brother can easily fly.”
Miri nodded. “That’s good. Any Yxtrang pilots measure down to the scout?”
Hesitation. “Captain. No. Occasionally an—undergrown—Troop survives to adulthood. But they are never pilots.”
“Hah.” Val Con lifted an eyebrow, catching his lifemate’s eye. “Scruffy midget?”
Her mouth twitched. “Point is—”
“The point is,” Val Con interrupted, “that, if the cockpit can be made to accommodate Shan, then it can be adapted only a little more to accommodate me. We can certainly fabricate adaptations.”
“Is that right, Beautiful?” Jason Carmody asked, across whatever might have been Miri’s answer.
“Commander. I—I believe it possible.”
“Then we go with it. Three in the sky, taking out the prime points, while the rest of us shred ’em on the ground. That should set ’em to re-thinking their position.”
Sub-Commander Kritoulkas nodded. “You and Redhead want to walk the line with me now and get a feel for the situation while the pilots work out their differences? I got a feeling sooner’s the way the smart money bets.”
“Right you are.” Jason loomed to his feet. “Meet us back here in a few hours, boyo,” he said to Val Con. “We’ll want to coordinate pretty close. Coming, Redhead?”
“In a sec.” She waited until they were alone before pinning each with a glare in turn. Shan felt her will strike his and ring, like a blade off of hull plate.
“OK. The three of you work out the best way to run this gig. I understand you gotta take risks.” She looked directly at Shan, which he hardly felt was fair. “What you ain’t gotta take is stupid risks. Val Con.”
“Captain.”
She eyed him. “Figure your adaptations and test ’em out. When you’ve got things to where you think you can fly, I want you to think if you’d let Shan or Nelirikk or me fly with those arrangements. And if the answer comes up ‘no,’ I want you to back away from it, you hear me?”
“I hear you, Captain.”
She shook her head. “For whatever that’s worth.” Once again, her eyes touched each of them in turn. “Nothing stupid, all right? It’s an order.”
“Captain,” Nelirikk said. “We will bring glory to the Troop.”
She sighed and slid from her perch on the edge of the table. “And here I thought you were listening to me.”
***
Ship’s archive prov
ided latitude and longitude of Erob’s clanhouse and Priscilla ordered the Passage into a synchronous mid-orbit above that location. It was the least they could do for Korval’s ally, she thought.
The very least.
Since the successful repulsion of the flea attack, the Yxtrang had offered them no more harm, though Lina reported a lively interest in the Passage, its heading and possible mission, in the messages she monitored. It was Rusty’s particular frustration that he had not yet been able to establish a link with the planet, while listening in on Yxtrang radio chatter remained absurdly easy.
As she approached the bridge to relieve Ren Zel, she considered the problem of communication. Erob possessed a pinbeam, but ship’s archive indicated that the in-house had simply been a booster station, by which messages were sent to a satellite-based transmitter/receiver. The Yxtrang destruction of Lytaxin’s satellite defense had also taken the pinbeam, which meant that a ’beam sent from the Passage to the address of Erob’s receiving station would never find its mark.
But, Erob’s in-house might still be capable of receiving, if there were some way to deduce an address. Ren Zel argued that a broadbeam call to any and all listeners imperiled more than it might aid, but she was beginning to reconsider that. If they were clever . . .
The door to the bridge slid open and she stepped through, nodding to Thrina and Vilobar, who were going off-shift. They stopped for a moment, speaking to her with the warmth of old friends, but she read pity in them. That confused her for a moment until she recalled that, of course, they thought Shan was dead.
Silly friends. Shan wasn’t dead. She would know if Shan were dead. Which she had told Gordy when he rushed to the bridge after the lifepod went off-grid. She saw him try to believe it and come half to terms with the fact that she would know. She could have helped him to full belief, but that would have required Healing and she didn’t—quite—trust the edge of Healer sense that had been honed in the cold stone hall of weapons.
She made her way quietly to the command station and paused by Ren Zel’s shoulder. He was a-hum with concentrated energy and she looked to the screens, seeking the reason.
“What is that?” she demanded, staring at the tangle of ships and IDs on his prime screen.
“I attempt to ascertain,” he replied, without looking up. “They began releasing shuttle-craft about five hours ago, and now there are cutters, lighters, and work-boats away. Small craft, lightly armed; most have only meteor shielding; none, save the cutters, are planet-capable.” He sat back and, most un-Ren Zel-like, ran a hand through his hair. “It makes no sense.”
Priscilla frowned at the screen. The Yxtrang did indeed seem bent on sending as many poorly armed craft as possible into peril. Why? What gain? She felt something between her fingers, looked down, saw the red counter and idly walked it across her knuckles, her attention once again on why.
If the Passage were to pick off those defenseless craft one by one? The gain would be a measure of the range of her guns, as well as an understanding of the enemy: Would the Passage attack, waste power and supplies on pawns? Would a warrior chief, such as the commander of the Yxtrang battleship, trade materiel for that information?
No, she decided, the red counter warm in her palm. The trade was wrong—too many ships were fielded. His intent was otherwise.
Ren Zel’s work screen showed a shifting, three-dimensional pattern—Maincomp’s view of the situation. Taken in whole, the pattern bore a relation to the Passage’s own orbit, though it was obvious that they were in no peril from—
Priscilla froze, her eyes on Maincomp’s pattern.
“Assume the current number of ships remains stable,” she said, barely aware that she was speaking aloud. “Run calculations for six hours, twelve hours, twenty-four hours and display the results in sim.”
Ren Zel’s fingers were already moving across the board. The work screen blanked momentarily, then the simulation began.
The ships moved in strange ballet, revealing and hiding the Yxtrang battleship in coy display.
“Replay,” Priscilla directed, “from the vantage of the battleship.”
Once again, the ships danced, orbits intersected and diverged. Priscilla heard Ren Zel take a sharp breath.
“It opens. It closes,” he murmured and Priscilla nodded.
“It’s an eye. Those ships are shielding the battleship from us, and every—” she checked the sim—“every twenty-two hours, a path manifests in the shield-wall, from the battleship to the planet surface.”
Ren Zel moved, demanding an elucidation of the point that passed beneath the Yxtrang battleship’s position once every twenty-two world-hours, though she could have told him that—of course—it was Erob’s clanhouse.
She leaned forward, reaching past him for the comm-switch.
“Tower, here.”
“Rusty, I want you to send broadbeam to the planet surface, timed bursts thirty seconds in duration, three bursts over the next thirty minutes. The Tree-and-Dragon signature, if you please. Let’s see who we wake up.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Keys clattered over the open line, then Rusty was back. “First burst away, Captain. Second and third on the timer.”
“Thank you. Relay any reply to the command helm immediately.”
“Will do. Tower out.”
“Captain out.” She flipped the switch and looked over to her first mate, noting the weariness in him. Smiling, she touched his sleeve.
“The shift passes, friend. Get some sleep. The next few shifts may be very long.”
***
The key was the start-up sequence.
Each pilot had fifty-five seconds to touch a prescribed series of keys, toggles, and pins, which simultaneously brought his fighter’s various systems on-line, charged the engine and announced that the pilot was, indeed, of the Troop. Should the pilot miss or misplace a keystroke within the sequence, his plane would not only fail to start, but the defense computer would redirect the paths of two high voltage currents into the pilot’s couch.
Encouraged toward excellence by Nelirikk’s description of a failed sequence he had witnessed during his own training, neither Val Con nor Shan mislaid a stroke, from first run to last.
They moved from that to a generic description of an Elite Guard’s personal armament—two to five hidden knives; a long arm with bullets carrying internal flechettes of pain-killer so a victim would not understand his wound, or fast-acting poison, or even hallucinogens; and an assortment of clubs, spikes, and such, and perhaps a hand gun as well—and a thorough lesson in the facial graphics of those most likely to be encountered one-on-one.
That done as thoroughly as might be on such short notice, Nelirikk had Shan go through the drill a dozen times more on the dummy board they had hastily constructed of scrap wood and one of Kritoulkas’ conference chairs. When he pronounced himself satisfied with the performance, they set about modifying the “cockpit” to Val Con’s dimensions.
The modifications included a broom handle, several shaped plastic grips, and a chock of wood to bring the brake pedal within reach of short legs. Val Con flew through the sequence, shaving time on each run, until Nelirikk called a halt.
“Scout, understand that if you fall below the allowed timing by a factor exceeding five, the defense computer assumes it has been subverted by an enemy robot and releases the electricity.”
Strapped into the conference chair, Val Con sighed and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Thank you. I will bear that in mind. Again?”
“Again,” Nelirikk agreed. “Strive for fifty seconds.”
And fifty seconds it was, perfectly done. Nelirikk nodded.
“Enough.”
Val Con unstrapped and came to his feet, leaning over the dummy to disengage his adaptations.
“And have you done as Captain Robertson commanded, brother?” Shan asked from behind him. “Have you considered whether you would allow her or myself or Nelirikk to fly with those mods?”
He knelt and pried the
chock loose from the “brake pedal,” then rose lightly and faced his brother.
“I have asked myself that question. And I must say that I would certainly never allow anyone who fell under my care to fly such a gerry-rig as we have here.” He nodded toward the block of wood he held and look back to Shan, green eyes brilliant.
“Unless flying it held the best chance of their survival and the survival of kin.”
“Necessity,” the Yxtrang said surprisingly and Val Con nodded.
“Necessity.”
“Necessity,” Shan agreed. “I only wonder if your lady will see it.”
“Ah.” Val Con moved his shoulders. “My lady may not. But I expect that my captain will.”
***
The channel light came on and Priscilla depressed the switch.
“Command helm.”
“Captain, we got a reply from the broadbeam.”
Such rapid reply could only mean a pinbeamed message. Priscilla smiled. Good. We found Erob’s in-house.
“To my screen three, please, Rusty.”
“Sent.” The channel stayed open, which was odd. Priscilla looked to screen three.
“Pod seventy-seven?” she demanded, staring at the terse announcement that this unlikely entity was on-line. “Rusty, did you get a fix on the origin of this?”
“It’s coming out Erob’s territory,” he said and now she knew why he had left the line open. “Not the house. Mountain range toward the coast. Here.”
Another window opened on her work screen, marking Pod 77’s location on the planetary map. She upped the magnification, zooming in close, and called for place name display. The red counter was in her hand, alive with Shan’s presence.
“Well,” she said into the open channel. “Whatever it is, it lives on Dragon’s Back Mountain.” She sat back in the chair, feeling an electrical something, like a looming thunderstorm, stir the still ship air.
